


Of Comfort No Man Speak

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-09
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: "Family, man," Connor says, "they really fuck you up."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://mousapelli.livejournal.com/profile)[**mousapelli**](http://mousapelli.livejournal.com/) and [](http://lorax.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lorax.livejournal.com/)**lorax** for letting me spam them with this on AIM.

_May 2004_

"Fuck."

The muttered curse and the thump that follow pull Sam out of his studying. He lets his book slip closed and listens for a second.

Another thump, and another, "Fuck," rawer, this time, as though the speaker is in pain.

Sam slides out of his seat quietly (it is the library, after all, and nothing to do with years of training to move silently in dangerous situations) and peers around the bookcase.

There's a guy standing there, and he's just put his fist through the wall.

Sam doesn't think he's made any noise, but the guy whirls to face him, fist drawn back like he's going to swing again.

"Hey," Sam says. "You okay?"

The guy sniffs, and his fist shakes, like he wants to throw that punch but he's stopping himself. "I--Yeah--No." His laugh is edged with hysteria and he looks like he's either going to cry or kill someone. "Fuck. Does it look like I'm okay?"

Sam looks at the hole in the wall, then at the guy. "Looks like you could use a drink."

He gives another short, sharp bark of laughter. "Sure," he says after a long pause. "You buying?"

*

The guy's name is Connor and he's a freshman. Sam doesn't ask about his fake ID.

"So," Sam says, stretching his legs out under the table. "Finals got you down?"

Connor takes a long pull off his beer, then pulls a letter out of his pocket, tosses it on the table. The paper is heavy, white, textured against Sam's fingers, and the creases in it where it's been folded are knife-sharp. "Got this today."

Sam glances at the first line: _If you're reading this, I guess I'm dead._ and looks away.

"It's from my father."

"Oh God," Sam says, pushing it away, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"God's got nothing to do with it," Connor replies, and then takes another drink.

"I'm so sorry."

"Thanks." Connor finishes his beer. "He's not my--No, he is my real father, I guess. My biological father, anyway." He shakes his head. "I should have been there. Should have been able to help. But he told me not to. And for the first time in my life, I listened to him." He laughs again, that bitter laugh that makes Sam feel cold. "I finally figure out that I don't hate him, and he ups and dies on me. Bastard."

Sam raises his beer in silent salute, his other hand curling around the cell phone in his pocket. He could call, he thinks. Talk to Dad, maybe tell him he's sorry about the way he left. Though that might be too much like asking to be forgiven. He could call Dean, at least, make sure Dad's all right. He finishes his beer and nods. That's what he'll do. He'll call later. Right now, Connor is calling for another round.

*

"Family, man," Connor says, "they really fuck you up."

"I'll drink to that." They clink their bottles together and drink, and Sam hasn't felt this good in weeks. Studying for finals has been rough, and he's not sure taking classes over the summer was the best plan, but it assures him student housing so he doesn't have to move. He has nowhere else to go.

He slumps forward, rests his head against the cool wood of the table, wet with the condensation from the beer bottles.

"What's your damage?" Connor asks, hardly slurring at all.

"My dad kicked me out when I told him I was coming here."

"Really? That's nuts."

"Yeah, well. Family. Fucks you up."

"You don't know the half of it."

Sam laughs, because what kind of fucked up family could this kid possibly have that stacks up against John Winchester and his vengeance-obsessed demon-hunting? But he can't say anything about that. Even drunk, he knows he has to keep his mouth shut.

Instead he says, "Let's play some pool."

*

They stay until the bar closes.

"Early," Connor mutters. "Not like LA." He's got an arm around Sam's waist and Sam's got an arm slung around his shoulders, and they stumble through the long walk back to the dormitories.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see shadows shifting with the wind in the trees. Just the leaves, he tells himself. Nothing dangerous here, nothing but two drunk college guys who can't quite steer each other straight.

They make it to Stern Hall and Connor says, "This is me." He doesn't let go of Sam, though. Drags him up the steps. To the door.

"I'm over in Wilbur," Sam says.

"You can sleep here tonight. Just had a long walk, don't need another."

"S'not that long."

"Long enough."

"It's not--"

"Not safe," Connor finishes, smiling like he's won.

Sam sighs. Maybe he has. This is one argument Sam's never won with anyone else, and he doesn't think he'll win it now. Doesn't even want to really, enjoying the heat of Connor's body pressed up against his and the thought of falling into a comfortable bed in a couple of minutes.

Connor doesn't fumble with his keys. He gets the door open easily and leads Sam inside, fingers curled into the front pocket of his jeans. The touch--unexpected, new--makes Sam's heart jitter, like he's had too much coffee instead of too much beer.

They stumble up the stairs, still sort of draped over each other, and on the second landing, Connor pushes him against the wall and kisses him hard. Sam gasps in surprise and then Connor's tongue is in his mouth, slick and hot and heavy. After that first second of shock, Sam kisses him back, hands coming to rest naturally on Connor's hips, slipping beneath his untucked shirt to stroke the soft skin of his belly. Connor shivers under his touch, which sends a jolt of heat to Sam's dick. That's unexpected, too, but it feels good, so he just goes with it, instead of thinking. He's always thinking too much; maybe it's time to feel for a while.

Connor's mouth tastes like beer and salt and Sam can't get enough of it, kisses him back hungrily, hands coming up to cup his face. He's surprised that the brush of stubble against his palms tingles in a good way, makes him want to run his hands all over Connor's face, and then his body.

Connor's fingers tangle in the hair that curls over Sam's collar, the soft touch on his neck making his belly squirm. He drops his hands down to Connor's hips again, pulls him closer, and gasps again when Connor's thigh brushes against his groin; the friction is good enough to make him jerk his hips to get more of it.

"Fuck," Connor mutters against his mouth, pressing closer.

Sam laughs. "Yeah."

Connor works his hands between them and rests his hands on the bulge in Sam's jeans for a long moment, as if waiting for Sam to stop him. When Sam doesn't, Connor unzips him and shoves his hand inside to curl around Sam's cock.

Now it's Sam's turn to say, "Fuck," and Connor's to laugh.

"Good?"

"Yeah," Sam whispers, barely able to breathe. He tips his head back against the wall, thrusting into Connor's hand, and he's never been with a guy before, but he thinks maybe he should return the favor. He undoes Connor's jeans with shaking hands. "Okay?"

Instead of answering, Connor strokes him harder, encouraging him to do the same. Between the beer and the hand on his dick, Sam can barely think. It's easier than he'd have thought, holding another guy's dick in his hand, stroking it the way he'd stroke himself. And then Connor leans in and kisses him again, and Sam can't think at all. He feels like he's got fire in his blood, licking at the veins beneath his skin, heat and pleasure tearing through him like an inferno, and then he's coming wet and white over Connor's hand.

In the dim light of the stairwell, he can see Connor's face, eyes closed and red, wet mouth slack with need and pleasure, grunting low in his throat with the effort. Connor curls his own sticky hand around Sam's, increases the pace of his strokes. Then he's coming too, growling louder in satisfaction.

They slump together against the wall, sweaty, sticky, and still, kissing softly because it seems like the thing to do.

Then Connor pushes away, slightly more alert, and says, "I--I've got tissues in my room. Come on."

Sam follows, and continues not to think about what he's done, and what he's doing.

*

Sam wakes up tangled in the sheets, pressed up against another person. His head is pounding and his mouth tastes like something died in it. He opens his eyes and stares down at Connor, who looks younger when he's sleeping.

He slips out of bed and reaches for his jeans. His phone is heavy in the pocket. He remembers his resolve to call Dean and knows that he can't. Not because of this--well, not just because of this (and he doesn't think they'd know from the sound of his voice, but Dean...Dean always knows when something's off with him, and Dean would congratulate him for getting laid on the one hand, and needle him about needing to get drunk to do it, on the other)--but because he can't be the one to give in. He'll never earn their respect that way (and he can't even lie to himself that he doesn't want it). He tries not to think about the possibility that something bad could happen to them before he does. He remembers the feel of the heavy white paper under his fingers last night, the words written in neat script. He can imagine his father sending him a letter like that, and he never, ever wants to receive it.

Connor shifts, rolls over, and opens his eyes. "Hey."

"Um. Hey." He wonders if he should have left before Connor woke up, or if he should slide back into bed. This isn't really his thing.

"It's okay. You can go," Connor says. "I don't want you to feel weird or anything."

He laughs awkwardly, because this is one of the least weird things he's ever experienced and yet he's really close to freaking out in a way that he never has around ghosts, werewolves, or ghouls.

"Thanks," he says, pulling on his jeans. He crushes his sticky tighty-whiteys up into a ball and shoves them into his pocket. "I--had a really good time." It comes out sounding more like a question than he wants it to, and now Connor laughs.

"Me, too."

"I'll see you around." God, he sounds like an idiot, but he doesn't know what else to say.

Connor seems to understand. "Yeah."

Sam hurries back to his dorm, and when his roommate teases him about staying out all night, he just smiles.

***

_November 2005_

Sam sorts through the mail his former landlady has forwarded, comes across an envelope with no stamp on it. The handwriting isn't familiar, but that doesn't mean anything. He opens it and reads it in slow surprise.

_I heard about what happened to your girlfriend. I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could have done. I'm around if you need to talk._

Connor

He swallows hard and tucks the note away, eyes burning.

end

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard II by Shakespeare.


End file.
